


you and i are a story that never gets told

by frostings



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Drabbles, F/M, fic prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-06 08:16:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3127529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostings/pseuds/frostings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of Amell/Cullen short one shots and drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Prompt:[siribear](http://tmblr.co/m2xedSStvKm5FXvADAD60Nw) said: amell finds out cullen is sick and sneaks him herbs and medicines and stuff to make him feel better (or vice versa. at any point in the timeline)**

 

"If you don’t stop staring at him, the poor man is going to burst into flame," Jowan mutters under his breath. 

That doesn’t deter Amell. She leans forward, chewing the ribbon she’s tied around her braid, a bad habit she really needs to unlearn. “He’s still sick,” she whispers to Jowan. “Look at him: he has a headache and can’t stand to wear a helmet. Skin flushed, sweating…” 

"It’s because you’re looking at him." Jowan hisses back. 

"No, he’s really sick, Jowan!" Amell shoots back. Jowan holds up a finger to her lips, shushing her. Amell frowns and reaches out for her mortar and pestle, muttering as she throws in seemingly random herbs. 

Jowan looks on in disbelief. “Are you going to make him a guinea pig for one of your potions? Maker’s breath, Amell, leave the poor man alone.” 

"It’s not experimental; I went through the recipe with Wynne myself." Amell says before she carefully sifts the herbs in a packet. Clearing her throat, she looks around for any sign of the older mages before she finally approaches Cullen.

"Amell!" Jowan whisper-shouts, but she ignores him.

Cullen isn’t even aware of her approach until she’s right in front of him. “Here take this before you have supper to make you feel better,” she says in one breath before shoving the packet into his hands. Great. Smooth. She runs back to Jowan and collects her tomes and parchments in one embarrassed sweep before fleeing a very confused (and sick) templar behind. 

——-

The next day, she’s at it again. 

"He’s looking a little better, but maybe another dose? A little stronger this time…" she’s muttering and scratching away with her quill. Jowan rolls his eyes. 

"I wonder…if I were as pretty as Cullen, would you be as concerned for me if I were sick?" 

"Don’t be ridiculous. You’re ugly as sin but I still love you," Amell replies without missing a beat. "Look, I made this last night. Can you hand it over to him so it’s not too obvious?" 

Jowan stares at her like she’s sprouted another head. “Is it made out of your tears and whatever love potions are made from?

"Jowan…" There’s a warning note in her voice. 

"I just…why do you care so much, Amell? Let Greagoir take care of him. I don’t want to get into trouble." 

"And when’s that ever stopped you? Please Jowan, pretty pretty please…?"

When she did that little sad face face, that face that resembled the cats Anders liked so much, she knows Jowan can’t say no. 

——-

Strange things have been happening to Cullen that week. 

First: He caught Solona Amell has been staring at him strangely. (He must have imagined it but—)

Second: She actually gave him something to make him feel better and ran away after doing so. He must have been looking like death warmed over to prompt her to do that

Third: A book falls in front of him and opens neatly in the middle, and there’s a packet of herbs like the one Amell gave him the other day. A note is attached, in loopy handwriting:  _This tastes a little less like ~~goat piss~~  crap. Hope you feel better!_ _  
_

He spots Jowan nearby, making faces and rolling his eyes, so he supposes this came from her, as well. 

When his shift is over, he goes up to his quarters and turns the packet in his hands. He smiles until he remembers Greagoir’s word for this sort of thing: Contraband. He’s not supposed to have it. He’s supposed to turn it over, note and all, and the Knight-Commander would make a note of it in his ledger he keeps in his desk. 

_Hope you feel better!_ the note says, and there’s a little doodle of a smile next to it. 

Cullen smiles. Surely there’s no harm in letting such a little thing unreported? He folds the note carefully, and stows it away for safekeeping. He makes himself some tea. 

And what do you know? It does make him feel better.


	2. periwig, hatband

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Amell hearing Cullen singing for the first time? Like dumb tavern songs he sings to himself to fight the boredom during his late night shift, but she finds herself sneaking around to his post to hear his voice.

If there’s anything to be said about being the First Enchanter’s apprentice, it’s that it involves a  _lot of studying._ _  
_

Jowan’s long abandoned her to her tomes and her parchments, muttering a sleepy “goodnight” and a kiss on her forehead before marching himself up to the dormitories. Hmph. Traitor. Amell stares at the flickering candlelight to will herself back into wakefulness. The library is empty, and she hasn’t heard anything for hours except for the sounds of armor, which means that someone’s already taken over the earlier templar’s shift. 

She’s about to turn a page when she hears a soft humming, and then faint words. 

_Amo amas I love a lass, as a cedar tall and slender_

She’s not familiar with the song, but it sounds like one of those tavern songs the older Enchanters have shared when coming back from their travels. Amell peeks out from behind the bookshelf and feels a slight shock when she sees Cullen standing there, singing softly to himself as he adjusted his gauntlets. 

She quickly retreats back and stifles a smile. He’s still singing. 

_Sweet cowslip’s grace is her nominative case_  
 _And she’s of the feminine gender._

Hm. Not bad. Who knew he had this voice on him? It’s an upbeat tune, although she giggles a little when he mentions  _periwig and hatband._

The giggle gives her away, and he stops singing altogether. She flees before he could investigate on the eavesdropper, dropping quills and a blank parchment behind. 

——-

The second time around, she didn’t stay up to study. 

There’s a vague semblance of studying here—a half-scribbled note, tomes marked in places, spindleweed strewn across the surface—but Amell’s not paying attention to any of it. She smiles a bit, chin cupped in one hand as she listens to Cullen singing from behind the bookshelf, about three soldiers without any money. 

It’s comforting, and she doesn’t know why. There’s a little nagging voice that sounds suspiciously like Jowan that tells her,  _well you like him._ Well, yes, ok, maybe a little. So what? It’s nice like this, just to be close to him without drawing stares or speculation. 

Maybe tomorrow she’ll muster up the courage to say hello. Maybe. But today, just for today, she’s happy with this. 

——-

The third time, she falls asleep while he sings about the merry garlands of May, and she dreams of knights in armor and maidens in the tower in a land where there are no demons nor magic, just happy endings. 

She wakes up and it’s already a pale dawn outside, and there’s ink on her cheek. Cullen is already gone and so is his song. 

But there’s a blanket around her shoulders, and it feels warm.


	3. just another lonely girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from the prompt  
> fuckinghiddleston said: cullen comforts amell as best as he can we she finds out jowan doesn’t like her

For the third time in a row, Amell wakes up in the library. For the third time in a row, it’s half-past noon, she’s surrounded by people, and she’s drooled on her parchment. 

Sleep is the drug of choice for mages locked in a tower, when there’s something you’d rather not confront,when the Fade is so much better than the real world. Alcohol must be wonderful, from what she’s heard of it, burning down your throat, making you too dizzy to remember, laughing because you don’t want to cry anymore. She’s never had it before, but right now? She wants it very very badly. Lyrium must be next best thing, but lyrium burns up too quickly, and that feels more like power and ghost grasping fingers, and anyway, she’s pretty sure it’s not the same. 

She rests her head in her hands, trying to block out the murmured spellwork, the neverending hushed debates of mage freedom, and one apprentice wondering what they’ll be having for dinner that day (didn’t they just have lunch??) Just for today, she wants to be a normal person. Just for today she wants to sulk and mope and feel sorry for herself for things other than being able to shoot firebolts out of her fingertips and everyone hating her for it.

Amell lets out a low groan when she remembers what she doesn’t want to remember.

Jowan.  _Jowan._ What was she thinking?!  What made her think it was a good idea? She laces her fingers together, palms flat on the table in front of her, and then she soundly thumps her forehead against it. Once, twice, thrice, for good measure. 

 _Meet me at our special place tonight,_ he’d said, and she did, she showed up when he asked her to. He didn’t ask her to put on her nicest robe and put up her hair, but she did anyway. It was the way he smiled, like he had a secret he couldn’t wait to share, and she had foolishly thought it was a secret for her. 

Why couldn’t it be her? They’ve known each other forever, first as children with their dirty clothes and scraped knees, through awkward adolescence, up to now. Thankfully, that awkward phase didn’t last long. She’s pretty enough, Amell thinks, although Jowan doesn’t seem to think the same. She’s talented, too, although he’s not as happy for her achievements as he says. 

And anyway, what did talent matter if Jowan was just going to show up with that new apprentice who’d just arrived at the Tower? He’d asked sickeningly sweet, if she could be part of their duo, and that includes being in on the nicest corners in the Tower. 

"It’s not a duo if there’s three of us crowding around," Amell said sourly before turning on her heel. 

Honestly? She feels a little bad for doing that. The girl’s face burned with embarrassment and Jowan gave her that little accusatory look. Amell knows that the girl is new, she needs friends, but she doesn’t have to be friends with whoever Jowan commands her to. 

She shoves away from the table and begins to carelessly shove her things in her bag. She hates that she knows that she’s the unreasonable one, that she’ll have to deal with this in a way that’s not unfair to Jowan. But right now, she just wants to be unreasonable.

The Tower’s winding hallways are empty. The apprentices are away studying or mucking about, or both. She just wants to get away. Not that you can actually do that in the Tower.

She’s hurrying and of course her stupid feet pick this exact moment to catch on her own robes, sending her catapulting forward in an untidy heap. It’s followed by the sickening sound of glasses breaking. In her bag. 

Shit. “Shit!” She scrambles to retrieve her belongings. Her flasks have broken, and her finished paperwork are now bleeding ink. She smooths them out on the floor, but they break apart in her hands. 

"Are you alright?" Amell’s so horrified at what just transpired that she doesn’t even notice his approach. It’s a templar, and she doesn’t know him.

"I didn’t make copies," she whispers. She feels her throat tighten, and tears begin to gather near the corners of her eyes as the realization hits her like a punch. "I didn’t make copies!" The sobs come in earnest now, big wet hiccuping sobs. 

"Um," the templar looks around wildly—but there’s no one else at the hallway. "No need to cry. Let’s get you up on your feet, would that be alright?" 

"Leave me here to diiiiiie," she wails. 

"I can’t do that," he says, although he’s starting to sound slightly panicked as well. 

Somehow he does manage to get her sniveling self off the floor, and somehow she’s managed to babble the whole thing about how her life is truly over, how she has to do these all over again, and how a boy she likes doesn’t like her. Three seconds.That’s got to be a record, somewhere. 

The templar sighs. “It’s going to be alright. It’s not good to be too upset here,” he says in an undertone. 

"Demons and all, attracted to runny noses and pathetic love lives," she agrees. She pushes her hair away from her face and rubs her nose on her sleeve. The templar blinks in surprise when she looks at him. 

"He—uh, must be blind, whoever he is," the templar suddenly says. 

"That’s really nice of you to say," she smiles despite herself. They’re always so nice when they’re new. "Thank you." 

She reaches out one hand. “My name’s Amell.” 

"Cullen," he replies, shaking her hand formally. 

Her bag is a mess, but she’s feeling a little better now. “I’m sorry about that Cullen, I’m usually not like this.” 

He’s backing away slowly now, and she knows he’s not supposed to talk to her any longer than he needs to. Now that she’s calmed down, he doesn’t need to. “It’s alright. You can…anytime, you know?” It’s nice that he even offers, even if he doesn’t mean it. 

"Alright," she nods. 

"Amell!" Jowan’s voice calls out from afar. He’s gesturing to come over, and she can already see on her friend’s face that he’s going to apologize. Maybe this day could be salvaged, after all. 

She whispers a quick goodbye to Cullen as she hurries to Jowan’s side. 


	4. baby you're a city on the wrong side of the tracks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gossip girl au.cullen is from brooklyn, amell is from the upper east side. they should hate each other on principle. ~808ish words

 The city empties out over the holiday break, filled in place by tourists and gawkers, and she can’t stand it. He’s the ex-boyfriend of a frenemy sometimes best friend that he suspects she loves more than life itself. His ex asks him to come over for one final drink before her gang flies out (“Ibiza,” winks at him, and he knows he can just  _go_ with no strings attached but he’s been there before and he doesn’t want to do it again—literally and figuratively.)

He probably imagines the ghost of a smile behind the sneer that Amell greets him with at the door of her townhouse.

“Oh, look, DUMBO’s here,” she says before she swivels on her heel. She’s immaculately dressed, lipstick and diamonds and pearls and Prada, as if she’s attending a charming little fête, not pizza and beer.

“Belgian, mostly,” Dorian says of his beer collection neatly lined up on the bar. He says it as casually as if he were talking about his postcard collection, no boasting there. “I’m starting a wine collection this time, so I’m getting rid of this bunch.”

Cullen watches Amell out of the corner of his eye as she drinks primly out of a heavy pint glass. It’s almost adorable, except he would never accuse Amell of something so common.

The next few hours are predictable: Dorian drinks most of his own beer (“I’ve been on a cleanse the past month, leave me alone!”), Jowan and Amell occupy their time ignoring each other while exchanging barbed remarks at the same time, while Lavellan sticks to the sweeter beer and texting, carelessly ignoring him. In the end, though, they’re all summoned by their cellphones, drivers picking them up to go to the airport.

In the end, they’re left to their own devices, and approximately a thousand empty bottles of beer between them.

“Aren’t you going anywhere?” He regrets it the moment he asks.

“Aren’t you supposed to be trailing after Lavellan like it’s your job?” Her voice is acerbic.

Right. He stands up, and somehow, he’s just that talented in annoying her more because that one movement actually makes her  _pout_.

“What, are you just going to  _leave_ me with this mess?”

“ _I_ didn’t do anything. All your friends left this.”

“My friends weren’t wearing plaid,” she says this as if this is explanation enough. She’s already turning away, gathering bottles and disappearing into the kitchen.

He wonders why she’s still here, and it’s that half-formed question that makes him follow her lead, beer bottles in hand, clicking softly as he walked.

Cullen catches her slipping out of her heels, suddenly looking so vulnerable without them. She turns on the faucet, measuring out soap, and she looks like she actually knows how to do the dishes? Maybe she’s just a girl after all.

He clears out the rest of the bottles, hauls it downstairs. He comes back and stands next to  her without saying a word, picks up a towel and begins to dry the plates she puts in front of him.

“See? You’re good at following instructions,” she smiles fake-sweetly. Not that she asked, of course.

“What are you going to do over break?” he asks because, well, he’s already here and Lavellan’s always told him to be nice to Amell. Nice, as one can be towards a venomous cobra.

“Write the next great American novel, scheme the demise of my enemies, shopping, the usual,” she says it in such a way that he’s not sure if she’s serious or not. Probably serious, to be on the safer side. “And you’re…planning to sort out your charming collection of flannel, I take it?”

“Well, I certainly didn’t plan to be doing  _this_.”  _This_ being stuck with her, of all people. ”I was going to meet my buddies to play chess at the park.” He braces himself for some cutting remark, but it doesn’t come

But she visibly perks up, and carefully twirls a plate out of the dishwater. “You play chess?”

“Yeah, why?”

He can see her mentally running through her words before she speaks. “If you would rather not play with a germ-infested set played by anonymous sticky hands, my father sent me a brand new chess set that I haven’t touched yet.”

He considers saying no, but he remembers the sight of her bare feet padding on the floor.

“Alright.”

“But this is an indoors game, and we’ll keep it indoors only,” there’s a warning note in her voice. God forbid that she’d be seen in public with him. God forbid she’d even be stuck in a city with him, washing dishes next to him. But here they are.

Stranger things have happened.

And besides, it’s not like they’re friends.


	5. your heart is a weapon the size of a fist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The Knight-Commander sent Cullen to Greenfell until he ‘leveled out’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anon prompt fic

The lyrium bottles are lined neatly on his table, the counting of his days.

Cullen rises from bed before dawn, already knowing how the hours will pass. He will splash water on his face, put on a soft cotton shift (it’s been weeks now since he’s last put on armor), and a Chantry sister will lead him outdoors with the others (men like him, here but not here, empty gazes and screams in the night), where he will sit quietly and be  _good_.

It’s easy with the bright blue of lyrium.  He’s all too glad to let the humming take over until he can hear nothing else, the thrumming light steadying feet that have been treading water for so long. It helps him be quiet, and the quiet helps, the Chantry sister will nod and smile and write an encouraging report back to Knight-Commander Greagoir, telling him what he wants to hear: _Cullen is fine_ .

Without the lyrium, the quiet is relentless, screaming in his head, a void that can’t be filled. He does not want to exist here, where his future wears his face in the men who laugh and mutter and cry in the quiet.

“All men are the work of the Maker,” the Chantry sister says to the faithful who turn away, unhearing. Not men, not anymore, not really. It’s not their fault. Something else sang to them to sleep, and now that is gone, and they’re always listening, listening, and all that’s left is the infernal quiet that’s only defined by the  _not having_ , defined by the emptiness, defined by the drought of the bright blue.

Everything distracts them, and Cullen watches as one rocks himself softly, whispering for his mother. One claps and dances at seeing the wind move through the leaves. Other colors call to them, like the auburn hair of the Chantry sister perhaps reminds one templar of a lost love, and all he does is follow her timidly around, saying nothing, limpid eyes and empty hands.

 _I am a sword in the Maker’s hand, a light in the dark_ Cullen says to himself but he can’t remember if it’s in the Chant, or in his head, or from a book he’s read from long ago when he…

A parchment in his hand, familiar handwriting. Words like  _why aren’t you responding to my letters_ don’t mean anything, a shade of a thought of a person, someone he might have known, a triumphant smile across the chessboard. Time must have passed. But Mia is always seventeen when he remembers, stubborn tilt of her chin and eyes fighting back tears.  _Brother. Cullen. Why aren’t you responding?_

 _All my brothers are dead,_  he writes one day.  _What do you know about loss?_ It’s a letter he doesn’t send.

Then there’s the other letters, the letters he doesn’t get to see, griffons etched into the wax seal, letters that darken the Chantry sister’s face and get torn up in her hands when she thinks he’s not looking. A scrap escapes once, and picks it up, and it only reads—

_Cullen,_

The ink is a deep black, scratched deeply into the paper, embossed, unfamiliar handwriting that still manages to get his blood running. That wild hope, lust and fear and love and torture tightly entwined, forming the letters of his name.  _Cullen,_ she always seems to be saying, but he never remembers her saying it as often as she does in his head, in that place where the lyrium is silent.

(But the lyrium will find that room eventually, or so he hears, and block out the light, windowless and mute until there’s only the song.)

“It’s no good, it’s no good,” the Chantry sister is saying to someone unseen, out of sight. “It will only hurt him, and the Knight-Commander wants him back.” Undo all their work—the Chant of Light, lyrium painstakingly measured out, the long stretches of nothing and silence.

Anything can be turned into a weapon. A smile can cut as deeply as a curved dagger. A heart can be just as dangerous. A piece of paper with his name on it.

_Cullen,_

What did she mean to tell him? But the sister says nothing, not even when he asks, her face a perfect blank.

“You should forget,” the sister says. ( _Forget her_  is what she means, but she does not need to say it.)

But absence means nothing and nothing, nothing is a weapon too.

He watches the sister burn all the letters from afar, one by one, letting the flames consume everything except his name written in that unfamiliar hand, hidden in an empty lyrium bottle. The embers carry in the wind and they crumble as they fly. Gone.

Later, the sister asks him to sing the Chant of Light. There is ash on her hands, and she folds her fingers over her palms so he would not see.

“Don’t forget who you are,” she says, smiling ever so sweetly. It’s easier when all that remains lies in the dust.  _Don’t forget what they did._

He won’t forget.

He is a sword in the hand of the Maker, flaming and golden. They burn out, they all burn out, but oh how radiant they will be before they do.

 


End file.
